


Deaths of the Undying

by Hyliare



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Asexual Relationship, F/F, Gen, M/M, Social Commentary, Vaguely Casefic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 03:52:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1454392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyliare/pseuds/Hyliare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr Watson’s clinic was small and beige and boring. Standing on the outside, across the street, Sherlock decided he wasn’t going to like it.</p><p>By the time his inner workings had been dusted, fine-tuned, and properly lubricated (without Sherlock having to endure a single sexually-charged joke), his initial opinion on the clinic had changed.</p><p>Sherlock had decided he was going to like it very, very much…Even if he had been wrong nearly 157% more than his usual daily allowance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deaths of the Undying

Dr Watson’s clinic was small and beige and boring. Standing on the outside, across the street, Sherlock decided he wasn’t going to like it.

The first thing that struck him as odd (and hateful) on the _inside_ was the registration system, or lack thereof. The front door was manual, practically a relic, and, instead of a _beep_ , it _tinkled_ as he opened it. He glared up at the strung bells, noticing the lack of electronic perimeter. It was just a _door_ , a portal in the simplest sense. Metal and glass—actual _tempered glass_ —set in a basic frame in the poured-concrete building. _Ridiculous_. And it only got worse from there. Next, Sherlock turned his sights on the waiting room itself. A piece of paper had been tacked to the far wall (the _beige_ wall), on which a hand-inked arrow pointed left, toward a plastic rack with a scratched metal clipboard sitting in it. It suggested he “sign in,” without any capitalisation. He walked to the clipboard and balked.

_Name:_  
 _Desc. of injury/illness:  
TOA:_

The final field was the only one he could deem acceptable, and even then, a proper door would have logged it automatically (along with model number, hardware modifications, current firmware, and the results of a full diagnostic scan). With the right architecture, doctors hardly had to step foot in their clinics at all. Plenty of repair work was being done with Health Veils and vending machines, entirely automated. A doctor could step in to fiddle with a hard-to-reach circuit board or attach a single limb (assuming one had been rendered limbless and needed the head-start), then retreat back into their office, patting themselves on the back. From the look of things, John H. Watson preferred a more… _intimate_ approach.

_Wait. “H.”? John…H._

For a moment, there was a far-off look on the android’s pale face. His eyes darted back and forth. He blinked.

_H. Just H. He’s actually paid to obscure the public record of his middle name? What possible reason…?_

Sherlock sighed. He closed the mental file without looking at any other information and picked up the clipboard. Entries for two lines were scribbled in with chicken scratch—he refused to run cognitive scripts for things as mundane and useless as _handwriting_ —before the clipboard was placed back where it (apparently) belonged. He returned to taking in his surroundings, hands deep in the pockets of his coat.

All four walls were a basic tan colour, their only adornments the clipboard mount and a framed doctor’s license. The flooring was black resin, but an off-white area rug with a faint floral motif was spread in the centre of the room. There was a free-standing magazine rack, which Sherlock could only assume was some sort of antique, meant purely for decoration, and a large chest of…things. Quilts and stuffed toys, upon closer examination. There was a sofa to the right side, ivory ‘pleather,’ to almost-but-not-quite match the rug, and a row of five white and black plastic-bodied, metal-framed seats on the left. It was objectively hideous. And empty. Sherlock doubted it had ever held enough waiting patients to fill up the _sofa_ , let alone the rather optimistic set of monochrome stacking chairs. Even the fact that he was waiting _now_ was hard to believe.

 _Is he with a patient, or just napping in his break room? Door on the right. Obvious. Left must lead to the examination room. Professionally sound-proofed, at least…Assuming he’s **here**_.

But he had no _real_ evidence to support the idea of the doctor _not_ being in, so Sherlock picked the least-objectionable surface (one of the hard plastic chairs, just on the clipboard’s side of middle) and sat. Mycroft had chosen Dr Watson for a reason.

 _But maybe that’s giving him too much credit_.

It wasn’t as though Mycroft was in top form, and communication with ciphers over encrypted lines wasn’t ideal when it came to thorough explanations of one’s motivations. Sherlock had sent, “Need clinic, not auto,” and he’d gotten back, “Watson in Nobel district” and that was that. Sherlock was beginning to suspect Mycroft had run a simple search, crossed it with his GPS coordinates, and returned the very first result.

 _…Hm_.

Except he ran the same search himself.

 _Sort by number of unfavourable reviews_.

Sherlock’s dark brows pulled down together.

_No. Number of…favourable reviews?_

His foot was tapping at 3 beats per second by the time he’d got done sorting the results with every possible permutation. He was plotting out new search terms (and additional terms to use for finding pictures to upset Mycroft’s delicate sensibilities—“botfly,” perhaps, or “fasciitis”) when the door to his left opened smoothly. Sherlock kept his eyes on the rug, tuning in with his ears instead.

“Thank you, doctor, again. I am so grateful.”

 _Gynoid. Accent based on Central Russian. Most likely a “Jeanie,” model MSCW-235 to 250. In for repairs? Typical. They do get worn out rather quickly. It must get plenty of business around here_.

“It’s really no trouble.”

 _For a middle-aged male, I bet it’s not. They designed them to be easy on the eyes_.

“If you need anything else, even just someone to chat with, don’t hesitate to call.”

 _Mycroft, you must be joking. You can’t honestly have sent me to a doctor who thinks a glorified marital aid is going to give him a ring because he patched up its_ —

Sherlock turned in his chair, lips curled, to actually watch the exchange. The _surely_ pathetic exchange between what was _surely_ a pathetic man, and a pathetic, artificially _low_ -intelligence shell of a supermodel.

 _Ugh_.

He hated being wrong.

He hated being _magnitudes_ of wrong, it was demeaning.

John Watson didn’t look particularly pathetic. He was a bit short, and the white coat that stopped at his knees wasn’t doing him any favours in that regard, but the expression on his face was genuinely concerned, not leering. Instead of being soft around the middle from lounging in his office eating crisps between bolt-tightenings, the man was trim—perhaps even muscular. His loose-fitting cardigan made it impossible to tell.

_Unfashionable, but not completely undignified. I wouldn’t expect him to buy expensive clothes in his line of work, but he could at least buy the correct size. Or get them tailored._

The alleged “Jeanie” was even worse. Sherlock had to draghis thoughts over to confront and correct his mistaken deductions on _that_ front.

It was not, in fact, a model MSCW-235 to 250. It wasn’t even a gynoid. The patient was an androchine, a chassis modified to present as androgynous, with dark skin and short, tightly-curled blonde hair. But its voice was the exact same modulator present in most MSCW models. He hadn’t got _that_ wrong.

 _Frustrating. Fascinating_.

The doctor lifted the clipboard on his way toward the door, holding the exit open for his previous patient and saying one more good-bye. He waited until the door rang shut again to glance down at the page—it took him a moment to decipher the text—then to glance up with slightly-pursed lips.

“Hello.”

“ _Hello_.”

“…You didn’t put down your name.”

“Because I don’t _have_ one.”

 _Obvious_.

“What do you like to be called, then?”

Sherlock stared him down, mulling the question over. Not, “what should I call you, then” or “what’s your model number, then” or “what does your agent call you, then.” What did he _like_. What did _that_ matter?

He’d left the field blank with a kind of conscientious objection. Droids didn’t have names—unless you counted the usually stupid, often derogatory tags given to certain genres of models (“Jeanie,” for one), and he didn’t even have one of _those_. To title the field with the word “name” was ignorant. It was almost offensive. A doctor wasn’t supposed to be either of those things.

 _Though…Perhaps he feels he same about the term “doctor.” Would he prefer to be called an engineer? A mechanic? That coat, the bearing, the “bedside manner.” He took care of humans before…Maybe in the military. His age looks right for just before the Shuffle_. _Surgeon, judging by the way he’s got that pen_.

That pen, apparently poised to fill in the box with whatever sequence of sounds next came out of the android’s mouth.

“…If you don’t have a preference, I could just call you…Mister, or Miss, or—”

“Sherlock.”

Dr Watson’s brows went up. He forced them back down and nodded.

“S-H-…E-R-…?”

Silence stretched between them until Sherlock realized the doctor was waiting for a prompt. He tried a nod. The doctor’s mouth twitched, suppressing a smile, and he continued:

“L-O-C-K?”

“Yes.” And Sherlock waited for the doctor to get “chummy,” for him to test out the name by injecting it into every possible sentence. That was one of those techniques humans used, wasn’t it? To improve their memory.

“ _Right_. Well, let’s get started. Just through that door. When did you last see someone?”

The droid winced. “Dr Watson?”

“…Yes?”

He sighed, just slightly, and stood. “Never mind it.”

“Okay. Er…Just through here.”

By the time his inner workings had been dusted, fine-tuned, and properly lubricated (without Sherlock having to endure a single sexually-charged joke), his initial opinion on the clinic had changed.

Sherlock had decided he was going to like it very, very much.

…Even if he _had_ been wrong nearly 157% more than his usual daily allowance, and Dr Watson hadn’t been kind enough to explain _why_ his previous patient spoke the way it did. Not one hint.

He’d still liked it.

 

\---o0o0o---

 

Strictly speaking, Sherlock didn’t need to see a doctor to reboot. He simply needed a secure location, someplace he was assured he could rest, un-accosted, for five to ten minutes ( _average of 8 minutes, 21 seconds_ ). The problem was thus:

When one was “on the run,” however casually, one couldn’t always _be_ assured one wouldn’t be accosted.

The android grimaced and put a temporary block on the word “one.” That had sounded _far_ too much like Mycroft for his liking. He blocked “%accost%” as well. Just to be safe.

And “thus.”

He pushed open the door to John H. Watson’s clinic with his left arm, reaching smoothly up with his right to stop the bells from sounding his arrival. There was something about that particular pitch—it annoyed him _every_ time. Sherlock had begun to wonder if it wasn’t some sort of low-tech security measure, meant to put off would-be criminals with sensitive hearing…like droids. Or bat-dogs.

“Be right with you, Sherlock!”

 _Or John H. Watsons_. He fired a glare toward the break room as he stretched himself out on the sofa, starting a stopwatch for the doctor’s benefit.

Three minutes, sixteen seconds. The doctor emerged without his coat.

_Probably hung on the back of his chair._

_“_ Did I interrupt your lunch?”

“Considering the boss doesn’t give me a lunch break, I’ll say ‘no.’”

“…I didn’t come prepared for your ill attempts at humour.” Sherlock swung his legs onto the floor and stood. He crossed to the door on the left and cocked his head. “I won’t be long, go back to your korma.”

The doctor shrugged and unlocked the exam room, stepping inside and holding the door with his foot so Sherlock could follow. “Just finished it, actually, and call me John. Here for a nap, or the riveting privilege of my company?”

Sherlock’s lips quirked up despite himself. “Option A.” He lifted himself easily onto the metal table ( _magnetically heated, a comfort originally invented for human patients_ ; _second-hand?_ ) and crossed his legs. “However, I might be convinced to put up with a _small_ amount of Option B, if you promise to dispense with the comedy.”

“Bedside manner of a vending machine that’s passed the Turing test. Understood.”

“Don’t be ridiculous…A machine that’s _failed_ the test. Please. That’s the whole point.” He watched the doctor try (and fail) to hide his smirk. It made Sherlock rather unreasonably happy, and more than a bit confused.

“Heh…Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

John turned to go, but paused with his hand on the door. He glanced back over his shoulder, opening his mouth and then pursing his lips a bit.

“…Something wrong?”

“No. Sorry. Just…I was wondering how you found me—this clinic, I mean.”

“It’s on the public registry.”

“Is that where you found it?”

“…No.”

“Look, you don’t have to tell me. I’m sorry. It’s just that basically everyone I see is a referral, and the walk-ins I get don’t usually…Well, they’re from here.”

“You don’t think I am?”

“From the Nobel district? No. But if you don’t want to tell, it’s fine. I get it.”

Sherlock focused in on the doctor as he shrugged. _Tilt of his brows, only used a single shoulder. He doesn’t get it, patients always tell him_. _Should I tell him?_

It was Sherlock’s turn to open and close his mouth. The doctor waited a beat, then opened the door.

“—Mycroft.”

John stopped. “Sorry?”

“Mycroft told me.”

“Is…that a search program?”

“What? No. What? It’s an android. A patient?”

“Ah. Well…I don’t have any patients called Mycroft. Wonder where he heard?”

It was a pleasant rhetorical, delivered with a smile, but the brunet was still rubbed up the wrong way. _Wonder where ‘he’ heard, indeed_. Sherlock watched the doctor slip through the door with a dour expression ( _not_ a pout) and sent off a few choice messages before he straightened his back, relaxed his shoulders, and slipped into his “nap.” Hopefully, he’d have a reply by the time he was finished.

Cyan eyes fluttered open just over seven minutes later. Only his final message had received any response:

_Dr Watson; where?_

_Nobel district._

“Ugh…”

_Yes, of course, I’d forgotten. Where did you FIND him?_

Mycroft didn’t send the word “sigh,” but there was a distinct impression…

_Deep Web._

There was also a heavily implied “obvious.” Sherlock scowled.

_You don’t sound cryptic, you sound like you’re too busy reading cheesecake recipes to respond in full sentences. Answer the question that you’re well-aware I’m asking._

Radio silence.

The brunet actually huffed, but resisted the urge to cross his arms.

 ** _Please_**.

In return, he received a link.

It led to a site that prompted him to allow access to a few of his own drives, for verification purposes.

_For ‘droid eyes only,’ then. Quaint._

Sherlock had heard of their existence, but he’d never been curious enough to seek any out. His searches of the indexed Surface Web had never left him wanting ( _almost never_ ), so scouring the subterranean portion had seemed a waste of time…Especially scouring the subterranean portion written by droids. He imagined most of it had to do with… _Ah. Yes_.

Large block letters at the top of the page read, “ **D-L-D**.”

Droid Liberation Directive.

Any “droid-positive” search of the Deep Web would bring up miles of propaganda…From both sides. Half the graffiti in the city consisted of QR codes linking out to liberation sites. _And over half the droids who pass by can’t read them. How effective_.

Sherlock scrolled down a bit, fingers twitching where they rested on his thigh.

_John H. Watson…What do they have to say about you?_

Quite a lot, as it turned out, including a rather stunning revelation on the scarcity of the doctor’s patients.

“Suggested clinic hours: 05h00-23h00. Door barely locks, entrance to flat through break room. Knock: .... . .-.. .--. If no answer, appeal to Mary ID #7711111411511697110.”

Mid-day wasn’t a very popular time for unpopular-minded droids. They preferred to skulk around under the cover of darkness, apparently. Sherlock rolled his eyes and flicked his index finger.

Other posts lauded the lack of door perimeter—no tracking of fugitives, that way—and still more were charmed by the treatment they’d received (medical and not).

“It’s not about feeling like a human,” said one, who had come to the clinic for repairs after being struck by a commercial vehicle, “it’s about feeling like an equal. Dr Watson doesn’t pretend I’m flesh and blood, he just doesn’t seem to care I’m not. Very professional. Mary is lovely, too.”

 _Mary_. Sherlock glared at the exam room door, unseeing. _Who’s Mary?_

He quickly searched for the supplied ID number and found nothing of use.

_It’s meant for messaging, obviously, but through what vector?_

He put it into the main field and sent a test. It didn’t bounce back. The android’s frown deepened. A question was answered (possibly), but three more sprung up in its place. He could compose an actual message, he supposed. To “Mary.” About John H. Watson. If he wanted to.

He didn’t want to.

Even reading the posts on the review thread felt wrong. Sherlock wanted to learn about his doctor…organically.

 _How embarrassing_.

He loosely clenched his hand to clear his vision, sliding off the examination table and exiting the room. The (hateful) bells signalled his departure but he was gone down the street before John could stick his head out from the break room. That wasn’t rude. And it wasn’t running away.

_Was it?_

 

\---o0o0o---

 

Three weeks passed before he returned to the clinic. Or before he stepped foot inside the clinic, at any rate. The surrounding area proved itself much more interesting than Sherlock would have thought.

The doctor had been correct, after all, technically. He wasn’t from the Nobel district. He’d visited it all of once prior to Mycroft’s suggestion.

The Nobel district was far from a cesspit, but it was also far from a paradise. If a citizen wanted to rank the fragmented portions of the rebuilt city from one to twenty, in terms of physical dilapidation, Nobel might fall somewhere around the low to mid-teens. In terms of corruption, it ranked far better. In terms of hedonism…rather worse. It was adjacent to the “actual” red light district, Goethe, and some spill-over was to be expected, but it seemed the white and blue-collar professionals of the district attracted more than their fair share, and the inter-district security was lax in who passed through (which was a good thing, really; Sherlock’s path had included cutting into Goethe to make his way over to Nobel, instead of trying to exit the “superior” Boss district, where the crossing was under surveillance).

There were thirty-one publicly-registered clinics in the Nobel district, nearly forty per cent higher than the city average. That meant there ought to be at least sixty-two patrolling police officers—it was an interestingly consistent correlation, but not causal in the slightest. But, from what Sherlock had observed, he’d put the number at closer to forty.

 _Far too low_. _Either there’s some shortage of “manpower”—no evidence to suggest it—or the thinning of the security crowd is unique to this area_.

The area around Dr Watson’s boring beige clinic.

 _Not entirely implausible_.

He hadn’t caught sight of any particularly virulent crimes in progress, and even the roving prostitutes seemed almost…polite in their solicitation. Perhaps it wasn’t just the clinic that was boring, but the entire street. And the streets immediately around it. Perhaps it let out some kind of _wave_ of uninteresting energy, placating the denizens of the district in a way that led to a decrease in police intervention.

 _Or it’s simply random_.

Police officers were, however, supposed to visit clinics like Dr Watson’s a minimum of twice a week. Sherlock supposed they meant to check for signs of uprising, as opposed to searching for any report of violence toward droids.

Only one officer ever came to Dr Watson’s clinic, though, and he was forever accompanied by the same partner.

The first time Sherlock observed them was the day after his…abrupt departure:

The officer was human, average height with unadulterated silver hair ( _early for his age, but refuses to mask it?_ ). The partner was an android, slightly shorter, slimmer ( _stronger, though, made to be_ ), with short black hair and a surprisingly untrusting face. It was an old model. Newer versions were made to look more…well, attractive, for one, and kind, not to mention most were given darker skin, to fit in with the general population. The android was a few shades paler than the ruddy officer; he was almost as light-skinned as Sherlock was himself.

_It looks like it’s sucked on a lemon. Uncomfortable, too. It’s not used to this route, to patrolling this district? And an old model. Ah. Recently re-activated. Waiting to be de-activated again, at any second. But…What’s happened to the officer’s usual partner? Some sort of inquisition?_

Sherlock’s thoughts had trailed off then, when the officer had rapped on the clinic door and waited, hands in his pockets, for the doctor to answer.

John Watson was out of his usual white coat. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and he passed a darkly-stained rag between his hands.

 _The police always knock. Or, at least, this officer does. He answers regardless of what he’s doing. Fascinating_.

“Dr Watson. Everything all right?”

“Yeah, Greg, yeah, it’s fine.”

They shook hands. The doctor used his right.

John’s eyes flicked to the android, frowning for a fraction of a second before he attempted a smile and offered his left.

Sherlock had already observed the left-handedness, on the day of his very first visit. _So he doesn’t like to inconvenience…humans? Or friends._

The android was ambidextrous, and shook as soon as its partner ( _the kindest word for “agent,” really_ ) gave a nod of permission.

“I don’t think we’ve met? John Watson.”

“Dimmock. I’m assisting Officer Lestrade temporarily.”

“Ah,” The doctor nodded, and turned halfway back to the man, “Did…something happen with Sally?”

The officer ( _Greg Lestrade; Gregory, I assume_ ) glanced around them as he heaved a deep sigh, hands still stiffly tucked into his coat. “Something, yeah. There’s…been a bit of an inquisition.”

 _Aha_.

“Some evidence _may_ have surfaced connecting her to some…unintended directives. They’re trying to figure who planted it. You know those, er, rogue droids are keen on…falsely incriminating officers of the law.”

“…Right. Yeah, no. Yeah. Very keen. That’s awful. I, uh, hope they clear her soon.”

“Me too. Dimmock’s doing a great job, though, don’t get me wrong. You’re doing fantastic. Wake _me_ up after a few years and shove me out on the streets and I’d be _worse_ than useless.”

Apart from the android’s murmur of denial, silence stretched between the three of them—a commiseration, it seemed—and Sherlock took the time to try reading the lines of Lestrade’s shoulders. _He knows, obviously. The evidence wasn’t falsified in the slightest. But he doesn’t care? And he really does want “Sally” cleared. Does he just appreciate having a more modern partner?_

“Well,” the officer began again, “just needed to check in. Things look all up to standard, as usual. Let us know if there’s any trouble.”

“Of course. Good to meet you, Dimmock. Got to run.”

John ducked back into the clinic and the agent-android pair lingered for a few seconds longer before returning to their car.

 _That…was not even remotely regulation_.

The meetings for the next few weeks went on in a similar fashion. Lestrade would knock, say hello, chat briefly about the progress with “Sally” (or “Donovan,” as he also used to refer to it), and leave. He never crossed the threshold of the clinic.

When Sherlock did, in fact, step foot inside the building again, it was immediately after one such meeting.

Well, it was in the middle of one such meeting.

His weeks of observation had been relatively peaceful. There were plenty of bolt-holes in the district, so if he felt he’d been spotted, or if he was being followed (it was impossible to tell whether he was being followed by _Them_ , or merely by a common criminal), it was easy for him to disappear. Much easier than in the Boss district, despite his clothing.

But that luck, if it could be called “luck,” had run out on the twenty-second day. Hiding himself physically hadn’t been enough.

Sherlock had been forced to take himself off the grid. He’d been forced to die—in a manner of speaking.

Death for SI-droids wasn’t the same as death for humans, or even death for AIs. It wasn’t like a reboot, like sleeping, it was more like a very deep coma with every possible complication.

He hated it.

It was a shame he had to do it as often as he did.

His latest death had lasted only a few hours, but he was every bit as unsteady on his feet as if it had been years. His processes all started up again at a snail’s pace, filling his head with an angry buzz as he tried to sort through what little information his back-up system had deemed relevant enough to save.

 _Mycroft_ , as always, and _the Holmeses_ , and _Them_. He always managed to remember those things.

_Dr John H. Watson. Wait. “H.”? John…H. Just H._

Sherlock couldn’t access public records yet, the Internet would be too much for him for at least until after a reboot, but he suspected it was less a case of a gap in the memory (he rarely saved _incomplete_ information; his hard-drive worked on an all-or-nothing basis, most of the time) and more a case of…inexplicable obfuscation on the part of the doctor.

He could bring to mind the clinic, and what he could only assume was a total log of their interactions.

_The military. Left-handed. Vegetarian. That’s all…fine, I suppose. But who, or what, on Earth is Mary? Sally Donovan?_

They were just names, hanging in the ether. It meant nothing. It reminded him of the Liberation Directive, for whatever reason. _Probably “whats,” then_. _Recent arrests…? Activists of some sort? Ugh_.

Sherlock needed a newspaper. No, several newspapers. All of them. Physical copies would have to do until he could access the digital libraries of the world.

And he had the distinct recollection that Dr Watson kept a magazine rack in his waiting room. Either there would be newspapers there, or the information on how to procure some. If he passed enough clues on the way to deduce the methods himself, all the better.

He checked his pockets.

 _Well_. _Hopefully the good doctor can spare some credit._

 

\---o0o0o---

 

Sherlock reached the clinic after just under a half-hour of walking. He was confident on his feet by that time—thankfully. A police vehicle pulled up alongside him as he walked. He could recognize the word “police,” at least.

A grey-haired human officer stuck his head out the window. “‘Scuse, me.”

“No.”

“…Uh. Aheh. All right, sorry. Where did you get that coat? ‘S nice.”

“Boss district.”

“That where you’re from, then?”

The droid kept walking, resisting the ( _interesting_ ) urge to roll his light eyes as he approached the clinic door.

“Ah. Here to see John Watson? All the way from the Boss district?”

“No.”

“All right. ‘No.’ That’s fine. Good man, isn’t he?”

Sherlock turned at that, finally, and glared at the vehicle in its entirety. “Your wife is cheating on you. She thinks you have something unnatural going on with your droid partner—” He paused to bend down, sizing up the android in the other seat, “—Not that one, though. A gynoid. Fairly narrow-minded, but you seem heterosexual enough.” Sherlock rose back to full height. “You aren’t very good at your job, you lack the cold-heartedness required. That’s not a compliment. You ought to arrest me but you’re not going to, and you probably ought to arrest _him_ ,” he tossed his head backward, at the building, “but you aren’t going to do that, either. Neither is your ‘partner,’ since you wouldn’t let it, even if it wanted to, which it doesn’t. Faulty programming. Why did you choose it, specifically, for re-activation? Didn’t you read the report? Mm. Yes, of course you did. That’s suspicious, you really should be more careful…Wouldn’t want to follow the same path as the gynoid.”

His gaze sparked, a tiny cyan flash. “The same path as…Sally Donovan?”

“…Who the Hell are you?”

“Doesn’t matter. Good-bye.”

“Hey—”

The officer slammed the car into park and made to climb out. By the time he was on the sidewalk, Sherlock was reclined on Dr Watson’s awful ivory sofa. He ignored the knocks on the door.

John Watson, however, did not.

He looked almost surprised to see his old patient. Almost surprised, as most of his expression was covered up by pleasure. Then clouded with concern. “Welcome back—you didn’t stop the bells.”

“Thank you.”

“…Right, never mind. Just a minute, Sherlock.”

And so the door had been answered, and the officer had stayed resolutely outside, grumbling about the “rude bloke” and then begrudgingly asking the questions he was legally obligated to ask, and no more. Dr Watson inquired about Sally and Sherlock could feel the glare hitting the back of his head as the inquiry was answered. It was going “all right,” apparently. The man did like that phrase.

 _But he doesn’t sound too confident. Shame_.

The doctor shut the door with a ring and strode to the centre of the rug. “Sherlock.”

“Dr Watson?”

“ _John_. And what was that about? Don’t antagonize police officers—especially not right outside my clinic, for God’s sake!”

“Not even the ones you’re friends with?”

“We’re not _friends_.”

“You called him ‘Greg.’”

“That’s his name.”

“Citizens are meant to refer to police officers as ‘ _Officer_.’”

John pursed his lips, ever so slightly caught-out. “He prefers ‘Greg.’”

“Could we possibly end this dance prematurely to focus on a _typical_ doctor-patient exchange?”

“…Are you—Is everything okay?”

“More or less.”

And that was true. The more time he spent in the small, neutral-coloured room, the better he “felt.” It was probably due to time passing, his systems catching up and calming down, but Sherlock didn’t discount the clinic’s atmosphere entirely. The things that _weren’t_ “okay,” Dr Watson could hardly help with.

“Do you need a nap?”

“I…Yes. That would be helpful.”

“A check-up as well, if you’ll put up with it.”

The doctor was halfway to the exam room when he made the suggestion, holding the door open as he waited for the answer (with a near-pleading expression). He wasn’t asking what had happened, but he clearly knew something had.

“I can put up with it. Just…no humour.”

“None?”

“…Just a small amount.”

They soon settled into what Sherlock considered a recurring appointment schedule, in contrast to the sporadic visits sprinkled throughout his memory. The consistency was…nice. He could do without the bells on the door, though. Those were absolutely hateful.

 

\---o0o0o---

 

“Are you like this with your other patients?”

“Hmm…?”

“You do _have_ other patients, Dr Watson.”

“John.” The blonde marked a small line at Sherlock’s wrist and glanced up. “I have other patients, yeah. What do you man ‘like this’?”

“I never see them.”

The man smiled, turning his chin back down to measure the next wire in his patient’s arm. He marked its termination point. “Probably because most of them see _you_.”

“…What does that mean?”

“They see you around. You’re new. They ask about you.”

Bright eyes narrowed immediately, and Sherlock’s body tensed. “What do you say?”

The doctor’s hands lifted away at the movement. “ _Nothing_. I don’t tell them anything, thanks. It’s not their business. And this is _sort of_ a delicate procedure, so…Sit still?”

Sherlock forced himself to relax, which was as close to an admission of having moved as John was likely to get, then shrugged before he froze his limbs. “Not _anything_?”

“Not a single thing…I don’t share information about patients. You know that.”

There was a slight grimace as Sherlock remembered his first appointment—he’d pestered the doctor almost the entire time with questions about the androchine seen before him. John Watson had deflected every single one. Sherlock had been a little impressed, actually. Just a little. “…I do know that, yes. But I’m not a normal patient, am I?”

“You’d be surprised.”

The droid bristled.

“…Oh, _come on_. I didn’t mean it as…Wait, why does that offend you?”

“It doesn’t offend me.”

“…All right.” Another mark was made near Sherlock’s would-be pulse point. John sat back, turned Sherlock’s arm a bit. He adjusted one of the marks and smirked. “You know…it’s not really like I have anything I _could_ tell them. You’re not exactly chatty.”

“You haven’t asked.”

Again, the doctor paused. He’d slid the soft-tip pen into the pocket of his coat, hands poised to disconnect the faulty wiring. His eyes darted around Sherlock’s face. Sherlock stayed very still. The doctor finally spoke again: “…Would you tell me, if I did?”

The answer really, _really_ should have been “no.” Instead, the brunet found himself nodding.

John’s nose wrinkled a little, expression caught between a grin and pure bafflement. “Oh. Well…okay.” He went back to work, deftly tugging out the “veins” and slipping in new ones before Sherlock felt anything more than a pinch. Then he wiped the ink off and pocketed the rag he’d used to do so.

He didn’t ask a single question.

Sherlock frowned.

“…Something wrong?” The doctor flashed him a little smile, which only made the droid’s expression darken further.

“No.”

John’s smile did the opposite, widening and showing a bit of tooth. “You _want_ me to ask you personal questions?”

“No. Of course not, no.”

“But you’d answer them, if I did.”

“…”

“And…then you’d ask me some in return. Is that what this is about? Because, you know, you could ask me _first_. And just…ask. It doesn’t have to be a _quid pro quo_ sort of thing.”

“You were in the military before the Shuffle.”

John stiffened where he stood, in the corner of the examination room, putting away the tools he’d used in the short procedure, his back to Sherlock. “That didn’t sound much like a question.”

“Because it wasn’t. You were a surgeon. Were you a GP before that? For humans?”

He turned. “Uh…No. I went right from school to the…Did you look that up somewhere?”

“I didn’t have to. Where did you learn to be a ‘doctor’?”

“The government trained me. Least they could do after invalidating my old profession—and what do you mean, you didn’t have to?”

“I meant it’s rather obvious if you know what to look for. Who’s _Mary?_ ”

“My flatmate.”

“…Your _flatmate_.”

“Yeah. She lives upstairs, in my flat. She’s my flatmate.”

“I’ve never seen anyone go into your flat. Or come out of it.”

“You know, this feels a lot like the beginning of this _same_ conversation, about all the patients you never see…?”

Sherlock scoffed and hopped off the exam table. “Is she human?”

“No.”

“It’s a droid, then. A gynoid?”

“No. Actually, she happens to be an AI.”

“An _A_ -I?” That…didn’t make much sense. The brunet’s face twisted in a new frown, one reserved for the utter distaste he experienced alongside confusion. It was one thing for Dr Watson to consider SIs—droids—on a level similar to humanity, to use the pronouns he did, and the respect. But SIs weren’t AIs. Droids had _seeded_ intelligence. It grew, it developed itself. They had the ability to acquire new knowledge and determine uses for that knowledge. They were as close to the human brain as possible, really. Artificial intelligence was…well, lesser. AIs were entirely pre-programmed. They couldn’t learn, and most were of the opinion they couldn’t truly feel. Some held the same opinion about SIs, of course, and considered the difference in name convention-only, but that was an argument for philosophers with far too much time on their hands.

Sherlock pulled himself back to the present with a short sigh. “Why do you call an AI ‘she’?”

“It’s what she likes. If she wanted to be called an ‘it,’ I’d call her that. She likes ‘she,’ and she likes ‘Mary.’ End of story.”

A sudden spark of realisation flooded through the dark-haired droid. “It’s your flat manager. Mary is the AI of the building. You call your _climate control_ by a human name.”

“I’m getting pretty done with this topic, Sherlock.” The doctor closed the drawers in the corner of the room and straightened the box of gloves atop them.

“Is it because you don’t have any human friends?”

“All right. Completely done. Good-bye, Sherlock.” John strode to the exit and pushed it open, holding it wide with a tapping foot.

“You said you’d answer my questions.”

“I said _no_ such thing, actually, I said you could ask them without having to answer any in return. You asked, I answered nearly all of them, and now you’re just being belligerent and, frankly, a little bit self-loathing, and it’s making me uncomfortable.”

“Self- _loathing?_ ”

“You have shown nothing but _contempt_ for every non-human being you’ve crossed paths with, since I met you.”

“Have I been remiss in showing contempt for the humans as well?”

The doctor pursed his lips. “That’s not the point.”

“Have I, though? I suppose I have. It’s really only a coincidence that our conversations have focused on non-human entities. I can be acerbic on _any_ topic of ‘life’-form, if I put my mind to it.”

“No. No, it’s _that_ , it’s that right there. How you say _life_ like you’re not really living. It’s _that_ kind of derision that I’m talking about. How you call Mary _climate control_.”

“It’s the AI of your flat—”

“When you disrespect her, or any of my other patients, you’re disrespecting yourself. I don’t like it.”

“…” Sherlock was grateful he’d disabled most of his autonomic functions, like the flushing of his cheeks or the rise and fall of his chest. As it was, he sat perfectly still and stared the doctor down, face pale and “breathing” calm. “Then I must apologise for doing something you didn’t like, mustn’t I? So sorry, Dr Watson. So terribly sorry that I managed to hurt your delicate human feelings.”

“That’s not—”

“Isn’t it?”

“It’s _not_. It’s about sympathy!” John flinched as soon as the words left his mouth, regret crossing his face like a bolt of lightning.

Naturally, Sherlock supplied the thunder. “I don’t want your sympathy. Your…your delusions. You treat machines like they’re human because you don’t have a choice. It depresses you, doesn’t it? A world so different from the one you were born into. The world of the city. Thought you could handle it? Thought anything could be better than your ancestral home, didn’t you? Which one of your parents were drunks? Was it both of them? Disappointing older sibling? Were you the golden child, or just the lesser of two evils?”

Sherlock watched the dark clouds roll slowly over Dr Watson’s face, building up density. He saw the tension gather along the man’s jaw and neck, running down his shoulders. A little smile tugged at the droid’s lips. It was anticipatory. It was savouring the calm before the storm.

He waited.

The doctor did nothing. He did nothing but give a pointed sniff and cock his head towards the open door.

Several more seconds passed in silence before John glanced up from the floor. “Good-bye, Sherlock.”

“…Could you at least recommend another clinic?”

There was a quiet, mirthless laugh. “You’re free to come back here. Not later today. Tomorrow, only in an emergency. Just never mention my family to me again. Not ever. I don’t care what you look up, Sherlock, I know the information’s out there, I know it’s free, that it’s easy to get…but, please, don’t throw it in my face.”

The droid opened and closed his mouth. Somehow, he didn’t think a second round of, “I didn’t have to look it up,” would be appreciated. He slid off the heated table and walked stiffly into the waiting area. “…Good-bye, Dr Watson.”

“John.” John, who closed the exam room door, locked it, and marched directly into the break room.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first truly multi-chaptered fic on AO3! The story is fully plotted, so I hope to update whenever I can. *Edited out the tentative update schedule here, but I will never abandon a fic! EVER! Even if it takes years to finish, it WILL be finished. I'm nothing if not persistent. This was started for the Let's Write Sherlock challenge 11, "Create a story in a fantastical alternate universe using the following prompt: 'The dead body was the least of their worries.'" That prompt comes in during chapter two. It was the first scene I wrote...but obviously not the first in the story, at this point!
> 
> This story is not beta'd, so please feel free to point out any noticeable errors. Thanks for reading!


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